


the notes float away like wilting leaves

by vyrym



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, a bunch of sad goats and thier children playing instruments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-26 13:15:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30106539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vyrym/pseuds/vyrym
Summary: their space is empty, filled with lonely, jumbled keys.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	the notes float away like wilting leaves

(asgore)

his fingers are always too big, too solid, fur getting pinched by the gaps in the teeth: they shake and tremble when they furiously smash into a note, frantic like he’s running for his life, pressing two at a time. he has learned to live with it, has to learn, again, how to play his piano without them. their space is empty, filled with lonely, jumbled keys.

(toriel)

her mouth is wide and her teeth are perfect and her tongue can manipulate the passage of air like a maestro. she will sing for the monsters of the ruins unconsciously, beauty striking, passing between the flowers and her home, the stones and tiles, the traps long since disabled. these strange nonsense words float above her in the vaulted melody, ancient hallways, the narrow corridors, the water dripping from the cracks. her song is always melancholy, longing for something: that infinite, lost something. 

the monsters of the ruins always listen, even if if they never really want to.

(asriel)

they teach him the soft harmonies, the way to hold the bow and position the upper bout against his furry shoulder, the wood rumpling the fabric of his shirt, its stripes molding to the contours, other pale hands holding his arms in place and reminding him the way to draw across the strings with tender violence. he and they found it in the dump nestled amongst a smashed-in monitor and three bottles of half-empty soda in a grocery bag, jutting out its neck like a small, frightened animal scanning for some predator. they told him it was a violin. they told him they knew the melody, the fingers great craft, the strings like an intimate, long-lost friend. they told him since they were his friend too, their best friend, their only friend, they could introduce the both of them. they could make the music together.

now, when the sun catches on their petals, their roots in the dark soil, their face scrunched with tears, they can remember, for a moment, the briefest feeling of that sound: the belt, the pause, the chords all soft around them.

(chara)

she finds the thing nestled in a dusty corner - its long spine, the metal clink of the octave hole and the barrel, the wooden reeds, a discarded box of them still sitting on the shelf. it was not originally hers, and it is not hers now: they brought it with them a long time ago, long enough for the memory to feel warm and frayed, their tiny hands clutching at the thing like a spear, like it was the only thing between them and some real monster, something not made of any love or compassion at all. she is not sure how they got it, but she is sure that when they played, it was beautiful, and she is not them. she cannot deftly maneuver her fingers like they could. she cannot make the kind of music they did. 

but she breathes longingly into the pipes, and she cries, and she tries to remember anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> oh no ive caught sad goat disease


End file.
